


Counting beads

by amalgas



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Drama, Headcanon, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, No Plot/Plotless, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Nibelheim, Shinra Company, Wutai, sephiroth centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalgas/pseuds/amalgas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The General has to take part in ShinRA organized PR event, during which he actually winds up having to give public commentary on something he holds no fond memories of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting beads

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually not a singular fic, but a few of my headcanons jumbled together in a semblance of a coherent plot. So don't read if you expect things to make sense :D

The ordinarily muted sky over Midgar was hovering just above the tallest of buildings, a hint of toxic sunrise just barely noticeable, yet still there, patches of disheveled heavy clouds tinted by rising sun as if someone had tripped over a bucket of paint. Languidly amorphous blots crawled across the vast expanse, all the more reminiscent of a thick oily liquid. Darkness was slowly giving way, green neon lights only barely visible in the gray streets. Mako reactors’ heavy vapor swathed over them like a soft translucent carpet.

The morning was ripe with promise. There was a faint sense of unease in the air, hovering above his shoulder, lurking in the stark shadows and lingering around every corner. A bad premonition he couldn’t quite shake off.

Sephiroth shook his shoulders letting the unsettling feeling wane, gliding his fingers against the windowsill before taking a long sip of fine-ground black coffee. He never quite understood the fascination with adding sugar to sweeten intense bitter taste. Strong taste and aroma never failed to help him focus and clear his thoughts. He had to think rationally. Perhaps the vague anxiety that had been clutching his chest moments ago was caused by grand press-conference ShinRA had planned later today to celebrate the complete subjugation of Wutai territories. Which, of course, he had to be present at, given little choice that he had and everybody else’s grand expectations.

He would never admit he hated those, after all, hatred was a strong word suited only for the matters that sparked passion, even if sour. He merely found these events rather…disagreeable. Those gatherings – with a touch of thinly veiled threats and flamboyant ambition – always engendered an unhealthy commotion and extravagant expenses. Search of a suitable venue that spoke of company’s affluence and power, endless board meetings where department heads bickered and schemed against each other, contesting for better financing and the right to have a personal bit of TV glory, PR personnel working themselves dead to compile speech drafts which were deemed insufficiently emphatic moments later. Later, all of it would be confined to a singular spot, crowded with overeager reporters with their unending string of profound and truly trite little inquiries.

What disquieted him the most however, was the attention he attracted during such events. ShinRA`s poster boy, and now the hero of Wutai, the vanquisher of malevolent forces that opposed the enlightenment and progress brought by the company. The title made him cringe inwardly – half at the exaggeration, half in an indistinct discomfort, - each time he caught someone saying it out loud. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by those who had spread the word in first place, eyes prying, scrutinizing, searching his face for the tiniest display of his inner musings, invading his personal space and attempting to get the commentary on things he cared little for or otherwise was not interested in. He suddenly realized he held a unpronounced contempt for the media.

For the most part, Sephiroth had learned to deal with unpleasant consequences of his professional achievements by donning an impenetrable aura and uttering lines that were carefully worded, but ultimately offered neither depth, nor shocking value. Aseptic and perfectly nondescript. Ultimately, he had no right to disclose details of military operations or the company’s internal affairs. Exchanging formal handshakes and platitudes had been an unfortunate inconvenience that could not be helped.

Speaking of Wutai war was harder, even with it over now. Fresh in his memory still, conflicting feelings floated on the surface of his mind. The campaign boded ill with him. Too prolonged, too persistent, too grueling, for both sides. It raised many doubts in his mind back then, riddling his head with solemn thoughts. If Wutai did not need their reactors, why would ShinRA bother wasting precious resources trying to force its way, whereas plenty regions in the world might actually want their tech? Wutai was an enemy that didn’t succumb to company’s imperialistic machinations and lucrative proposals. An enemy that truly lived by principle – and, on principle was deemed too intractable and hence was sentenced to be destroyed.

He wished he could speak of it as little as possible.

Sephiroth finished his coffee in one sip. He could hear the voices. The clerks had been still making quite a ruckus. Papers shuffling, every now and then one could hear phone ringing. A high-pitched unnerving sound that indicated relentless agitation on all levels of the ShinRA building.

The day was not going to be easy.

* * *

 The grand hall of Urban Development department was spacious and offered quite a bit of room for all the participants as well as the all the intricate technical gadgets required by the media. In fact, the urban development branch used it primarily to host all kinds of project exhibitions to show their latest designs on the ever-changing infrastructure of sprawling Midgar. On regular days, it attracted a lot of visitors serving as a gallery of sorts. A showcase of ShinRA’s success in urban development. By taking advantage of the premises, ShinRA had cleverly cut down on the expenses, using what they already had instead of renting a hall of a luxurious hotel.

The conference was about to begin. He listlessly studied the ceiling. The building was not new – fine cracks had settled in, creeping over the moldings and the supporting columns, some due to the perpetually humid air, others due to strong tremors caused by trains scurrying about and construction machinery working nonstop in the nearby sectors. Milky white paint has peeled off in the remote corners, giving way to dark blotches of mould. The hall was filled with soft dispersed light, coming from tall windows which were half-closed by nondescript white jalousie with a fine layer of dust covering the blinds. ShinRA had not bothered to fix these tiny flaws. Who would pay them any heed when they had far more eye-catching things in front of them? There were all the major urban project scale models fixed across the room. The walls were plastered with all kinds of promotional posters and infographics, featuring the company’s flashiest accomplishments. They even thrown in red carpets and food stalls with exquisite appetizers and drinks. Anything to convey their best intentions and the prosperity they promoted.

The gathered crowd was a mass of hushed whispers and eyes, undulating and murmuring in low voices, sound of scrawling pen audible now and again. For a moment, they reminded him a single entity, a monstrous creature with a thousand burning eyes peering from dark abyss, waiting to sink its teeth into a juicy morsel. The metaphor was not inappropriate he reasoned, as mass media always hungered for delicious bits to feast upon. Unfortunately, a monster of this kind could not be dealt away with a sword or magic for facts themselves were not half as powerful as their interpretations were. He would have gladly preferred being stuck in a room full of terrors, facing claws and sharp teeth rather than saccharine fake smiles and prying eyes. It was a no-brainer.

Casting a glance sideways, he spotted a young woman with wavy chestnut hair in dark blue, almost black suit, that gave her away as a Turk. She was standing next to the furthermost column. Scanning the room with his eyes, he noticed a handful more figures in suits. He had also seen a bunch of infantrymen stationed near the hall entrance when he went in. That couldn`t have been all of them, though. Sephiroth was quite sure that beyond those glass windows, snipers have been positioned, ready to take a shot, should an emergency occur. The remaining members of SOLDIER, mostly thirds, had clear orders to secure the perimeter outside the hall. Lazard had personally issued the directive.

Microphone made a screeching sound, echoes rolling along the white walls. President Shinra rose from his place and approached the tribune, making a wide gesture and beginning his pompous speech, ladies and gentlemen, how happy he was to greet them today and how immeasurably important was the event that brought them all together… Sephiroth watched him with half-lidded eyes. The president held an air of exuberance, his eyes gleamed with an unmistakable power-drunkenness. His words were larger than life, claiming grand achievements and making far-reaching promises, a new era for Wutai and a new age of ShinRA international leadership. A man so complacent with power that had nothing to do with his own achievements was nothing when faced with a real danger. Sephiroth clearly pictured his puffy red face with tears welling up in his eyes when the man makes a run for his life, short of breath and tumbling, all of his self-importance crumbling as he whimpers and begs for mercy, unable to defend himself. The idea was both ridiculous and darkly alluring. He was surprised at himself for bearing such a thought when the President was the man who had shaped his very existence and the reason for it.

The man continued to speak of Wutai capitulation, occasionally pausing to point at Scarlet or Lazard or Heidegger or other notable contributors to the cause. Images from newspapers and various Wutai development projects flashed on the screen behind. When his testimony came to an end, one of his assistants invited the questions from audience. The inquiries followed immediately. What was the most challenging aspect about the failed negotiations with Godo? Will the company implement new prototype design for Mako reactor in Wutai? Do they expect a rise in exports? The voices clashed. He could hear Scarlet’s high-pitched voice making comments a couple of times and being interrupted by raspy baritone of Heidegger and someone making a chastising remark in the backrow. Lazard speaking, ever so politely. Shinra boasting about his charity project for Wutaian war orphans. Heidegger. Lazard again. The next remark startled him.

“…furthermore I believe General Sephiroth can offer you a better insight on the matter, having been to the frontlines in person”, Lazard finished smoothly.

“General, how would you describe the efficiency of ShinRA military forces during the Wutai campaign?” A question rose from a man in the second row to the left.

He felt a fleeting chill. All eyes had been directed at him at that minute. Moments ago, he was hoping his presence would remain more or less irrelevant compared to the company’s hotshots. He shot Lazard a glare, to which he only smiled and said in a quiet voice that media wanted a hero, motioning him to the tribune with his eyes.

The multi-eyed monster kept staring at him as he made his way to the tribune. He lingered for the moment studying the faces. Some watched him with interest, others with faint apprehension.

“I..”, he began. Cameras flashed. Nauseating bursts of cool brilliant white reflected from walls and blinds, filling the hall with eerie light. It evoked an oddly familiar feeling, not too unlike a discharge of Bolt3.

* * *

 He could still hear the voices. Undistinguishable groans in the distance, cracks of spell being cast, melding into a harrowing cacophony. The soil beneath his feet was soaked with blood, transformed into a sticky muddy substance tinted with crimson that clung to his boots. Patches of forest were charred pitch-black, burnt out mercilessly with fire magic as if a gigantic scythe had mowed them down. Solitary scorched trees here and there were an unmistakable result of someone having cast Bolt3. Bodies moving and crawling; it was impossible to tell the casualties apart. Medics scurried about dragging body bags or stretchers with the maimed. He caught himself panting although he wasn`t exhausted. The cloying scent of carnage seemed to have been choking air out of his lungs. There wasn’t a scratch on him yet his hands were covered in blood up the elbows.

Somewhere beyond those green hills a small town was hiding, waiting anxiously for the outcome of the fight. Godo’s troops here have been decimated, although at a price. Now all that was left was to secure the settlement, establish a command post, replenish the resources and file the reports. The civilians would have to surrender and cooperate. He had always believed that antagonizing the local folk would only beget more trouble; therefore, he preferred to let them follow through their daily routine casually instead of acutely stressing the meaning of word “occupation”.

Everything went a little different from how he envisioned the campaign when he was first sent here at the tender age of fourteen. The feel of the vast expanse of clear sky above his head was a little frightening. At first, it seemed as if sky is going to suck him in. A completely irrational thought. Yet it was a welcome change from spotlessly clean confinement of labs he had been raised in. The first time he got off the helicopter, he felt the surface beneath his feet give way and sink. Such was the difference between the earth and the tarmac that made up the plate floor back in Midgar. Wutai proved to be dramatically different from anything he knew before. The air there was crisp and clear of chronic pollution, the fog was milky white, untouched by noxious fumes and byproduct vapors.

Back then, he expected the war to end swiftly. What he didn`t expect was the fierce resistance Godo was making. His stand was not a mere power struggle; Godo was fighting for more than politics or resources. He was fighting for a difference. The difference that put Wutai and ShinRA apart. The longer the war continued, the more niggling doubts Sephiroth was having.

Someone was calling him and he snapped back to the present.

“Sir, uh, General?”, the infantryman seems confused and a little disoriented by his silence. “We are running short of supplies. The fighting has rendered water source unusable, and the medics need it for the basic…”

“I see”, came a curt reply. He pondered for a second and added, “I will see to it. Send word to the headquarters, they need to know of our status.”

“That would be a problem, sir. The signal is very weak here since the hills are blocking it. Our short-range communicators might still work, but headquarters are on the coast. We will need upland of some sorts to get through.”

Focus, Sephiroth reminded himself. Whatever disgust has been brewing in his mind regarding the carnage or reasons for war, he needed to stay down to earth. Survival, that of his own and his men, took priority now. He needed to secure the settlement and its resources. He needed a handful of SOLDIERs and some infantry who could still stand and fight. It would be careless to expect no complications at all. Unit F was nearly wiped out a couple of weeks before in a village such as the one nearby. The locals lured them into the ravine where they fell easy target. Even the squad under the command of Genesis sustained damage when ambushed by Wutaian guerillas. He needed to wash the stench of blood off his gloves before it permeates his skin.

He walked away hastily.

The sun was nearing the zenith when they reached their destination. The town – it was hardly larger than a village – greeted him with morbid silence. There were no screams or curses or pleas. They merely watched the invaders enter, admitting the defeat.

Cuspidate pagodas stretched above the intricate ridged roofs of smaller structures and thatched roofs of the peasant huts. The place looked like a complex maze made of tiny picturesque gardens, shrines and gateways. Through the gaps in its winding streets one could see terraced rice fields that rested on the adjacent hills. It was foreign, bizarre and yet it was completely easy on the eye, soothing.

The townsfolk consisted of old men and women with children. They eyed the squad with suspicion, if not openly hostile, whispers of a silver demon emerging from the far corners. Nobody cried or covered in fear but the expression that their faces wore was that of … resignation? He couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He ordered his men to disperse and secure the perimeter, taking only a few with him.

The local doyen listened to Sephiroth speak without blinking. The General went on to explain that the town was under the control of ShinRA now, that they will be occupying this place and establishing a command post here, that the civilians will be unharmed, provided no resistance is met and they cooperate willingly. There was no imperative need to inform the locals, but he reasoned that by giving them a guarantee of their safety he would diminish the possible panic and violence. At a certain moment, Sephiroth started doubting that the man truly understood what he was saying, and contemplated finding an interpreter before the grizzled man broke the silence.

The words that came out of his mouth came more like an ultimatum rather than a plea. The old man wanted bodies of the fallen returned, to give them proper funeral rites before he would provide any assistance. Those words were spoken as if it was him who controlled the situation. It wasn’t like his troops couldn’t get what they wanted by force, but then again he wouldn’t stoop so low to raid the innocents. Otherwise, he has found the conditions rather acceptable. Men who fought valiantly deserved the proper rites.

“You have my word. I will make the necessary arrangements; in the meantime, I will have you to provide my forces with clean water.”

The doyen narrowed his eyes as if measuring him from toe to head, before finally nodding in response. Sephiroth allowed himself to relax a tiny bit. That was one less problem to deal with. They could not be trusted, but appeasing to them and their tradition could make the things much less complicated and bloody. He still had the matter of establishing radio connection and contacting the headquarters. He searched around with is eyes, and his gaze fixed itself on a jagged roof of the tallest pagoda.

The towering building turned out to be a temple. The priest he found inside wore silky orange robes adjourned with yellow tapestry; his shaved head glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Communicating with him proved challenging, if not actually taxing. Priest’s speech was laced with thick accent as he gestured a lot, maintaining with obstinate determination that he would not allow outsiders to use the holy grounds as they please, much less to intrude without paying proper respects to their fallen. It was both frustrating and fascinating at the same time. Dealing with peculiarities of a different culture wasn’t something Sephiroth had ever been taught, but after failing to convince the priest he actually noted to himself to consider taking a crash course.

By the dusk, their water supplies were replenished. Body bags have been recovered and transported to the village. The time was ripe to negotiate with the priest once more. The man conceded this time, although insisted Sephiroth performed a prayer with him as a gesture of his good intentions.

The ritual itself turned out to be surprisingly soothing. Sephiroth’s eyes followed the movements of the priest with curiosity, watching as his fingers leisurely glided over bronze bells and figurines. His lips chanted something in low rhythmic hums, filling the temple with tiny vibrations. The air was sweet with the scent of burning incense. Flickering candlelight cast subtly shadows on the white cloth spread on the altar. The priest then kneeled down on the floor, urging the general with his eyes to follow is example. He clasped his hands in prayer, a rosary dangling from his fingers. Jet black porcelain beads clanked together, as the man rocked back and worth, uttering words that the general didn’t comprehend. Occasionally he rose to up to touch the rin gong that produced an eerie sound that crept its way to the softest parts of his mind. Sephiroth sat there awkwardly, his own hands clasped together, as he watched, somewhat transfixed by the complexity of the ceremony that seemed more similar to an exotic choreographic performance. Time seemed to have stopped.

When all was done, he left the shrine with a faint ache in his chest. As if he found something that he was searching for and would have to abandon it again upon returning. Foolish. He was a man of war and he had to use time and resources at his disposal efficiently. Now that the local customs have been satisfied, they should be able to establish a communication link on the roof and reach the headquarters. Heidegger, Scarlet … every ShinRA official would be delighted to see yet another bit of Wutai conquered, he imagined.

All of a sudden he felt weariness wash over him, all of today’s events weighing hard down on his shoulders. The combat, the negotiations, the sight of his man injured and low on water. He needed at least thirty minutes of sleep before putting down all the necessary reports. Upon returning to the camp outside, he informed his aide to make necessary preparations and to send word as soon as possible. The Second turned on his heels and swiftly left his tent.

The cot beckoned him. He shut his eyes tight as soon as his head touched down the rough fabric of the camp bed.

* * *

 During small hours of the morning, they were attacked. Godo’s soldiers used underground tunnels to hide and reform. A number of villagers helped them infiltrate the perimeter. Something even more horrific emerged from beneath the surface. Headquarters ordered an airstrike to seal the passages once and for all.

The semi-light revealed a revolting scene. Little have been left intact after the bombing. Few foundations here and there, demolished roofs and shattered walls. Smell of blood. Rags distantly resembling a child’s doll. Remains were scattered chaotically across the ashen grounds. Some unmistakably belonged to the civilians. Others…Others have been definitely clad in armor. Some were not even human, gigantic and armed with tomahawks.

Something cracked loudly under his boot as he observed the result of ShinRa’s military efficiency. A jet black porcelain bead.

* * *

 “…I can attest to ShinRa’s military forces playing the key role in bringing down the resistance in Wutai. Without the new designs from Weapon Department we wouldn’t have been able to eradicate the persistent guerilla movement as well as the extremely dangerous anti-SOLDIER weapons. The coordination between strategic departments is what made victory possible and minimized the risk for those involved in the campaign”, Sephiroth says instead. He doesn’t mention neither crushed black rosary beneath the soles of his boots, nor a simple burnt ragdoll.

* * *

 It takes Sephiroth a few more questions and handshakes before he can take his leave. He has done what was expected of him, fulfilled his duties and yet he still somehow manages to feel overexerted. The only thing he wants now is to go back to his empty apartment and spend some time alone in the comfortable semi-dark.

The first thing he does upon returning is irrationally compulsive. He goes to the bathroom and opens the mixer tap. He has to wash his hands clean.

He still feels the sticky substance cling to his gloved hands. He reaches down in his pocket and traces his fingers across the fissured surface of the black bead. Whatever impulse spurred him to take it up from the ashen ground, now he was sure he’d keep it as a memento to the end of his days. In his head, he can tell that he is covered in blood up to the elbow.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fic ever, so go easy on me, I am new to writing in general. 
> 
> About headcanon for this fic, I always entertained the idea that younger Sephiroth, for all the freedom that getting out of Midgar granted, winds up with some form of PTSD after Wutai. Maybe not acute like the actual deal (with nightmares and panic attacks), but nonetheless persistent. Like gory battles leaving a lasting impression on him, particularly if innocents were slaughtered (and with how ShinRA handles cover-up operations, I think it's totally possible :D).


End file.
